rer to
the spotless picket fence, and gazed upon the beauties of the side yard
and the front garden,--gazed and gazed, and fell desperately in love at
first sight.

The whole thing had been made as if to order; that is all there is to
say about it. There was an orchard, and, oh, ecstasy! what hosts of
green apples! There was an interesting grindstone under one tree, and a
bright blue chair and stool under another; a thicket of currant and
gooseberry bushes; and a flock of young turkeys ambling awkwardly
through the barn. Timothy stepped gently along in the thick grass, past
a pump and a mossy trough, till a side porch came into view, with a
woman sitting there sewing bright-colored rags. A row of shining tin
pans caught the sun's rays, and threw them back in a thousand glittering
prisms of light; the grasshoppers and crickets chirped sleepily in the
warm grass, and a score of tiny yellow butterflies hovered over a group
of odorous hollyhocks.

Suddenly the person on the porch broke into this cheerful song, which
she pitched in so high a key and gave with such emphasis that the
crickets and grasshoppers retired by mutual consent from any further
competition, and the butterflies suspended operations for several
seconds:--

"I'll chase the antelope over the plain,
The tiger's cob I'll bind with a chain,
And the wild gazelle with the silv'ry feet
I'll bring to thee for a playmate sweet."

Timothy listened intently for some moments, but could not understand the
words, unless the lady happened to be in the menagerie business, which
he thought unlikely, but delightful should it prove true.

His eye then fell on a little marble slab under a tree in a shady corner
of the orchard.

"That's a country doorplate," he thought; "yes, it's got the lady's
name, 'Martha Cummins,' printed on it. Now I'll know what to call her."

He crept softly on to the front side of the house. There were flower
beds, a lovable white cat snoozing on the doorsteps, and--a lady sitting
at the open window knitting!

At this vision Timothy's heart beat so hard against his little jacket
that he could only stagger back to the basket, where Rags and Lady Gay
were snuggled together, fast asleep. He anxiously scanned Gay's face;
moistened his rag of a handkerchief at the only available source of
supply; scrubbed an atrocious dirt spot from the tip of her spirited
nose; and then, dragging the basket along the path leading to the front
gate, he